


Chiaroscuro

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: There's a familiar print tacked up on one of the corkboards. Pete (who is thrilled that his hard work didn’t meet a garbagey fate) takes it down carefully, inspecting the quality. A purple post-it flutters to the ground. Curiously, Pete picks it up.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the backlog. Also, oh lord, this was written like 10 years ago. Please forgive me.

The darkroom is maybe the best place to be in all of AIC. The sinks are spaced out through the room: three stations, dead center. Twenty-eight enlargers circle the walls, numbered and stationed off. Above them, the safelight glows red. The sharp smell of stop-bath hangs in the air like words unspoken. Stories untold. Soft humming vibrates from the sinks, the ever-running water in the washes splashing in the stainless steel.

Pete loves the darkroom more than he loves his own mother. It's comforting. Especially when he's got it all to himself. There's no line of bodies crunched in at the sinks, no abandoned prints left in the washes, no idiot first quarters flooding the room with accidental light. It's just him, his film, and the pictures in his head.

It's the first week of summer quarter, and Pete's working on a project left over from spring. He thinks that it'll look good in his portfolio. He's terrified about portfolio review in winter and is beginning to seriously regret all the partying. Okay… maybe not. But he’s maybe wishing he’d done a little less. Maybe? The grain of the film is driving him nuts, and there's an unfortunate blowout between the frames of his favorite shots, bleeding white space onto the images. This is more annoying than discouraging; Pete is a wizard in the black and white darkroom. A wizard.

The print he's working on is of a boy- his brother, as a matter of fact- in a field. The sky is filled with big, puffy clouds, and the tall grass is dry and angled in the wind. The boy's shirtless, his tan little chest bowed, leaning back into the grass. His eyes are closed, head lolled back, small adams' apple haloed by the sun. His lips- still too big for his face- are pulled at the corners in a sleepy smile in muted grays. It would be perfect if he could just get the damn grain to work with him.

Pete yawns into his wrist and presses the button on his enlarger. The light flashes onto his paper- fiber, the good kind- for exactly thirty-point-six seconds before dying off. Pete thumbs the lock of his four-blade and pulls the paper free. The edges of the fiber wave and curl in on themselves when he slips it into the developer.

It's still magic to watch his image appear out of nowhere. It starts at the top corner, splotches of grass and clouds bleeding into the fibers. A shoulder. Fingers. Pete rocks the plastic tub of developer with two fingers, eyeing the clock every few seconds. After a minute and a half, he dips his fingers in and gingerly grabs the print at both corners. He transfers the paper to the tub of stop-bath and starts rocking that tub. Thirty seconds. Moves the print from stop-bath to fixer. His hands are going to look like hell when he's thirty.

It's surprising that he's got the patience for the process. It's so time consuming. So methodical. He thinks that that might be the important part of he equation. It takes his mind off of things. Gives him something to focus on. Lets him get rid of his tension in the steps.

Pete's just putting his print into the dryer when his phone rings. He flips it open and tucks it between his shoulder and ear, leaning in to it. The dryer takes twenty minutes- give or take- to dry a print all the way through. He's got time to spare.

"Wentz's house of Love. Pete speaking." Pete hops onto the counter next to the dryer. His eyes are stinging from the light in the review room. He kicks his legs against the cupboards and gazes longingly toward the hall that leads to the darkroom.

"You're a freak, just so you know," Andy's voice says over the speaker. Pete snorts. "There's free food in the lounge. You game?"

"Are you asking me on a date, Hurley?"

"The day I ask you on a date is the day the space lizards attack." There's commotion behind his voice, and Pete assumes Andy's already upstairs in the community area.

"Now that you mention it, I did see a chick with scales on her face come out of the IDT lab this morning." Pete slides off the counter. "I'll be up in a minute, yeah?" He shoves the phone into his pocket and treks back into the darkroom for his things.

He forgets his print in the dryer.

\---

"I will kill you if you turn that light on," Pete growls from somewhere underneath his giant pile of blankets. He hears Andy's footsteps pause, can almost hear the gears in Andy's head turning. The light comes on. "I renounce my love, you fucking heartless, vegan bastard."

"Breaks my heart," Andy says flatly around his toothbrush. "Really."

"You'll regret it later." Pete ruefully rolls out of his ridiculous bunk and gropes for a pair of jeans. Andy's feet are too close to his face, and there's braided hemp bracelets wrapped around his ankles. "Those are really faggy, man."

"Says the guy that brings home dudes on a regular basis." Andy spits into the trashcan. "You're late for class, by the way."

"Shit." Pete scrounges under the beds for his bag. Andy, jackass roommate that he is, offers no help. Just hops onto the top bunk and starts reading. Pete might hate him a little sometimes.

Pete's still yanking his shoes on as he half-hops, half-runs to the elevators. He hopes fervently that they're not jammed (because the dorm elevators are janky as all hell), and breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the familiar clanking up the shaft.

Pete loves his school. He loves his major, loves his roommate, and loves Karaoke Thursdays. He hates four hour lecture classes at eight am. There is nothing important enough to be discussed for four hours ever, for starters. Also? It's hard to have a discussion when half the class is drooling on their binders.

Pete skids to a halt in front of room 431. He flattens his hair and tries to catch his breath (it's been a while since he's played soccer. Also? He's maybe put on the freshmansophomorejunior fifteen). He opens the door and flashes a smile to the twelve faces that turn his way.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wentz," Mrs. Sych says from the front of the room. She's a small, middle-aged, Polish woman, accent and all. She's smiling, and Pete grins back at her. She's his favorite, and he seems to be pretty high up on her list, too, all things considered.

"Couldn't miss your stunning lecture, Kamilla," Pete says with a wink. Kamilla shakes her head and turns back to the board. There are free chairs in the front with easy access. There's also a free seat next to Mikey Way, all the way in the back. Pete climbs over bags and legs and chairs until he can plop down into the prize winning seat. "Hey, Mikeyway." Mikey waves a hand at him. He doesn't smile, but Pete knows well enough by now that that alone means nothing. Operation Make Mikeyway Love Me Madly is still a go.

A syllabus is passed back in his direction, and Pete takes it graciously from the cute redhead in the seat in front of him. He bats his eyelashes, chin propped on his knuckles. The redhead rolls his eyes. Photo Criticism is written in bold across the top of the syllabus. Pete wrinkles his nose and tucks the packet into his notebook. At the front of the room, Kamilla has put a PowerPoint on the screen.

"Why do we, as photographers, need to learn how to analyze photographs?" she asks. The class is silent. Pete yawns into his wrist and slouches down into his chair. The next eleven Mondays are going to be long. "Patrick, what do you think?" The redheaded boy jerks a little. One of his hands reaches up and tugs at the bill of his obnoxiously green trucker hat.

"To learn from other photographers' mistakes?" He (Patrick, Pete reminds himself) squirms in his seat until Kamilla calls on someone else. Pete grins. He likes 'em shy. Speaking of which-

"Mikeyway," Pete hisses. When Mikey doesn't respond, Pete resorts to prodding at his bare, bony elbow. Mikey swats his hand away, but also turns to look at him. This is a small victory in the war for Mikey's heart. "Lunch with me after class?" No response. "Starbucks? On Me?" There's a flicker of a smile, and it takes an alarming amount of self control to not do fistpumps when Mikey nods.

Pete burns off his excitement by kicking a steady rhythm against the back of Patrick's chair. By the end of class Patrick has:

Shot him twenty-four (24) dirty looks  
Thrown three (3) pencils over his shoulder without hitting a damn thing  
Thrown one (1) pencil over his shoulder that hit Pete square in the forehead  
Drawn two (2) dicks on the white toes of Pete's sneakers in Sharpie

Pete's pretty sure he's found his Monday morning entertainment.

\---

Lunch with Mikey was a bust. The conversation was awkward, the coffee sucked (Pete dated the barista once. Their relationship hadn't ended on a good note), and Mikey's date etiquette was atrocious. Really. Who looks longingly at busty waitresses when their- hotter, if Pete says so himself- date is sitting across the table from them? Pete decides that this means he has to step up his game. Maybe he'll call Saporta for tips.

Pete's thinking about the god-awful tips Gabe would hand out as he walks into the review room. There's a familiar print tacked up on one of the corkboards. Pete (who is thrilled that his hard work didn’t meet a garbagey fate) takes it down carefully, inspecting the quality. A purple post-it flutters to the ground. Curiously, Pete picks it up.

Nice photo. It could use some more contrast, though. And maybe less sky. Definitely less sky. Try cropping it?

PS

Pete frowns and turns the post-it over, looking for the rest of the note. He shrugs when he finds no more and sets the print on the counter. His anonymous critic has a point. Pete paws through his bag until he finds his handy China marker.

It's interesting to see your own work through someone else's eyes. They're less biased. More honest. Pete is a big fan of the solo critique. This is what makes it easy to draw crop marks over his fluffy clouds and write lowercase C's over his brother's face and knees. A class is starting to fill in the spaces of the lab by the time Pete is satisfied with his corrections. He'll just have to come back later.

\---

"Yo, Saporta!" Pete calls from across the lounge. A few heads turn toward him, but Pete takes no notice of them. Instead, he opts for running across the common, dodging tables and chairs, to lunge onto Gabe's back. This attempt is only half successful, partially because Gabe is a goddamn mountain, and partially because Pete's hauling thirty pounds of photo equipment on his back, and he’s left dangling awkwardly.

"Hang on, I think just grew a tumor." Gabe sets his phone on the closest table before bending forward fast enough to flip Pete off. Pete laughs- cackles, really- and makes grabby hands at Gabe's coffee. "You only want me for my java," Gabe laments, cradling his cup to his chest.

"Actually, I want you for your snake," Pete says as he pulls himself up.

"I bet you say that to all the boys." Gabe waggles his eyebrows suggestively. The effect is somewhat lost behind the white frames of his big, lensless glasses.

"Why change what works?" Pete throws an arm around Gabe's shoulders (which is awkward as all hell) and bumps their hips. "Seriously, though. You up to modeling with the Cobra?"

"Always." Gabe picks his phone back up and closes it without saying goodbye. He's an asshole, but, then again, so is Pete. Pete's pretty sure that's why they get on so well. "Time?"

"Tonight? I booked a studio at eight." Pete hefts up the camera bag on his shoulder. It’s starting to sting. Gabe smacks him hard on the back and waves at a few people across the room. Pete’s already lost his attention, and is fine with it because he gets a thumbs up. Gabe’s an ass, but he never ditches on appointments.

The sun burns Pete’s eyes as he steps outside onto the smoke deck. He raises his hand like a shield, scanning the patio for Joe. It takes a minute but through a fog of cigarette and not-cigarette smoke, a familiar white-boy fro shows up. Pete has the decency to refrain from taking Joe’s weed. He doesn’t, however, have the decency to stop himself from flopping down onto Joe’s lap, elbows and lenses bashing into arms and chest.

“Toking up on school grounds, JoeTroh?” Pete flicks the burning bud off the tip of Joe’s blunt. The ember rolls to the wood floor, ashes scattering in the breeze. Joe gives a girlish sort of laugh and takes another hit.

“Gets the creative juices flowing,” he says as he exhales, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his mouth. Pete thinks he’s right because, even though he can never relive it, he wishes he could have that smoke and Joe and everything it stands for on film forever.

“You’re a chef, Troh,” Frank (who Pete hadn’t even seen) says from the floor. “The fuck ‘creative juices’ do you need?” He’s squinting one eye against the sun, propped on his elbows on the deck. His legs are spread in a lazy ‘v’, the holes in the knees of his jeans frayed and stark against his skin. Pete pulls his camera from its bag, turns it on. He’s snapping a photo before Frank realizes what’s going on. The advance dial feels sharp under the pad of Pete’s thumb as he turns it. Frank grins for his second photo. Pete wishes, for a fleeting moment, that he used digital. He’d like to see them now.

“You’re wrecking my chances with the fashion chick,” Joe says to Pete, swallowing down smoke like he’s done it his whole life- which he kind of has, but whatever. Pete snorts and aims his camera at the girl Joe’s been eying. She’s pretty in an average way. Blonde and tall. Curvy hips and too much make-up. Pete twists the lens on his camera carefully to zoom in on her. The wind blows at the girl’s dress as Pete’s clicking the shutter. It’ll blur. Look like a ghost in black and white.

“Seen better, seen worse,” is what Pete says, even though he’s lost in thoughts about summer and dying and living in a moment forever, forever, forever. They’re all theoretical, but Pete gets off on living inside his own head, so it’s okay. Joe shoves at his back half-heartedly.

“Like Mikey Way is so much better,” he says. He cackles when Pete whips around. Frank, the douchebag, is nearly doubled over in peals of laughter. Pete kicks his thigh meanly.

“I’ll have you know Mikeyway is the most magnificent being to walk this earth. The whole damn earth, you hear me?” He takes Joe’s weed, much to Joe’s dismay, and takes a hit. It burns, and he really does hate the taste, but the look on Joe’s face makes the jerk in him smile.

“Your mouth has touched dicks, man,” Joe whines. “Keep it off my shit.” Frank seems to have to be trouble breathing, rolling around on the ground like he is. His hands are clutching his stomach like he’s going to hurl. Pete hopes he does out of spite.

“You’re just jealous my mouth hasn’t been on your dick.” Pete ashes the blunt and hands it back. “Yeah, so, I had a point coming over here. We still on for tonight?” Joe nods sagely, his eyes slitting.

“Most definitely,” he answers and grins. Dicky mouth or no, he offers the blunt to Pete again. Pete laughs and takes it.

\---

Pete loves working in the studio. He loves the control it gives him over everything. Loves the freedom. It’s easy to lose himself in the lights and the model and his message without the distractions of the outside of the world.

Pete’s setting up a boom when Gabe walks in, a box under his arm. Pete can see the flicker of the Cobra’s tongue through one of the air holes. He waves Gabe over before tossing the sandbag in his hand over the arm of the boom. It catches easily, and the softbox at the other end rockets up.

“Get naked, “ Pete says over his shoulder as he plugs in his power cables. Gabe laughs.

“What, no dinner? No movie?” He pulls off his hat- something pink and green and nauseatingly bright- and shirt before joining Pete by the background set-up. “So, what’s this one?” Gabe has modeled for Pete a good twenty times already. Pete thinks of him as a favorite.

“Animal magnetism,” Pete says. He’s fixing the floor lights with steady, even movements. He can hear Gabe’s eyes roll. “Don’t knock it, man. I have a plan. A plan, motherfucker.”

“Give it your best, Wentz.” Gabe pushes his jeans down and steps out of them, unashamed. “I want a cool moniker if these end up in the nudie mags, though.”

“No worries. I’ll keep them in my private collection.” Pete winks at him, grabbing his camera from the table. He waves it at the backdrop absently. “Lay down. Get comfy.”

Gabe is Pete’s favorite model for a reason. He lays out on his side, stretched and comfortable, even on the concrete floor. The backdrop crinkles and cracks as Gabe shifts on it, the paper bending under him. Gabe’s arms and legs are long and fit, and the curve of his waist makes a soft shadow on the floor behind him. It’s the line Pete loves: the angles of bent elbow, the spiral of hair against skin, the sweep of empty space between ribcage and hip. The geography of the human body in all its peaks and valleys.

The snake freaks Pete out. He’s not going to lie about it The Cobra flicks its tongue at Pete’s hand when Pete opens his box. If Pete shudders a little, it’s just because he watched Anaconda too many times as a kid. The Cobra, which is actually a boa constrictor of freaky proportions, lifts its head and curls around Pete’s wrist when it’s offered. Pete grimaces at the slick feel of its scales. Carefully, he lifts the rest of the snake with his camera-holding hand and carries it to the set.

The Cobra transfers itself slowly from Pete’s arm to Gabe’s leg. It wriggles its way around Gabe’s calf, half as thick and twice as long. There’s a struggle to move the snake’s body in the way Pete wants it, and Pete’s about ready to give in when-

“Come to daddy,” Gabe coos. The snake- slimy, reptilian bastard- slithers up between Gabe’s thighs, over his hip, and curls its head onto Gabe’s shoulder. Pete is impressed. “Daddy loves you. Yes he does.”

“That is seriously creepy, dude,” Pete says softly as he backs away. He raises his camera and looks through the viewfinder. Gabe flashes him a peace sign before sliding into Model Face. The first time he’d modeled, it had taken Pete thirty minutes of explaining that, no, Zoolander was not a good role model. “Like that, man. Don’t move.”

The strobes pop as Pete presses the shutter, filling the room with too-bright light. The snake lifts its head, tongue flicking. The tip of it touches Gabe’s earlobe as Pete taps the shutter again. So far, so good. He pops the strobes again and grins behind his camera. His set is going to kick so much ass.

\---

The best part of being roommates with an RA? Invites to the most badass dorm parties. This one’s on the sixth floor, three floors up from his own room. Pete’s dressed to impress; tiny yellow polo, a pair of his sister’s old jeans. Obnoxiously orange sneakers. He let the girl in his portraiture class do his eyeliner. He’d aborted his flirting pretty early; the chick’s girlfriend’s as bull-dyke as they come, and Pete’s a scrawny motherfucker. His plans are pretty well set, and he doesn’t have class for three days.

The times, they will be rocking.

Someone’s jammed open the lock on 6B so the door won’t latch. There’s an overflow of people from the dorm (which had once been an apartment, before the school had bought the building out) into the hall. Music blares from inside, the bassline like a heartbeat inside his eardrums. A hand holds out a red plastic cup and, ignoring every PSA on date rape he’s ever seen, Pete takes it and knocks back a drink before stepping inside.

Andy’s sitting on the couch, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a pretty brunette. Her eyebrows are drawn on, lips painted too small. The corner of her mouth, still soft pink, untouched by her red lipstick, is quirked. Andy waves a hand in Pete’s direction before going back into his discussion. Pete sidesteps the couch. Andy is the not-so-Silent Bob to his Jay but, no. Just. He’s not up for existentialist bullshit tonight.

“JoeTroh,” Pete calls to the smoky corner of the apartment. He sighs. His friends are such clichés. A hand pops up. Pete flops onto the nearest chair, ignoring the indignant squawk from the girl he lands on, and makes a grab-hand at Joe’s bowl.

“You have shitty manners, dude,” Joe says. His eyes are a little red around the edges. There’s a fairly large chance that he started up before the party did. Pete grins and offers up the palms of his hands in lieu of an explanation. “Yeah, so, what were we talking about?” It’s then that Pete sees the new addition to Joe’s usual gang.

The face is familiar. Round and chubby cheeked. The boy’s mouth is pink, pink, pink and his eyes are a little too wide. He looks too young to be at the party, and Pete is about to say as much when he recognizes the ugly hat and red hair.

“You,” Pete says, pointing a finger at the boy’s face. “Kamilla’s class, right? Pat? Or something?” Alright, fine, he’s sort of shit at remembering names. His head can only hold so much shit at a time. The boy’s smile drops, and his glare is more bunny-cute than menacing.

“Patrick,” he says. “My name is Patrick.” Pete shrugs a shoulder. He gets it. It trips him out when people call him Peter. That’s his father’s name, not his. The scowl leaves Patrick’s face, and he looks up at Joe, presumably to carry on their conversation. It’s too late, though. Joe’s talking animatedly to the girl Pete’s sitting on about gerbils. Pete is pretty sure he doesn’t want to be part of it. Instead, he grins at Patrick and offers him his cup. Patrick shakes his head. “Not old enough,” he offers at Pete’s raised eyebrow. Pete laughs, a loud bray that gets him a few weird looks. A blush creeps over Patrick’s cheeks and the bunny-scowl returns for an encore.

“Dude, sorry,” Pete chokes out around his laughter. “Seriously, though? How old are you, and why the fuck do you think that means anything here?”

“I’m seventeen, asshole, and I don’t want to get charged with underage drinking if this place gets busted.” Patrick glares at him, nose wrinkling. Pete is never, ever going to think of him in a non-furry pet way. Also? He’s pretty sure he’s laughing hard enough to shake the tits of the girl he’s sitting on. From the creepy smile Joe’s wearing, Pete can see his hysterics are not going unappreciated.

“Dude, dude, seriously?” Pete wipes at his cheek with the inside of a wrist. He catches his breath and lets out a final little snort. “Who the hell even thinks like that, dude?”

“Say dude one more time,” Patrick says through grit teeth. “I dare you.” Pete has never declined a dare. Prides himself on that, even.

“Du-ow, you little shit.” Pete clutches his shin, dropping his cup. Beer splashes onto the carpet, and there’s a cry of party foul somewhere in the room. Pete is too busy sticking his lip out and tending to his will-be-bruised-in-the-morning leg to notice which inebriated asshole is the source of it. Patrick gives him a tight-lipped smile, dragging his foot back slowly. His sneaker’s purple, and if Pete wasn’t in pain, he’d compliment him on them. Instead, he tries to focus on how Patrick’s toes are probably killing him from the impact. “Uncool.”

“Not my issue.” Patrick stands and heads toward the DJ. Pete, in weak retaliation, watches his ass sway in his jeans. It doesn’t take the sting away, but distraction is as good as any medicine, right? Then, there’s a pair of familiar glasses floating in the crowd. Pete scrambles to his feet, kisses his makeshift chair’s cheek (and Joe’s, too, just to be obnoxious), and rushes across the room.

“Mikeyway!” He tosses an arm around Mikey’s waist and bumps their hips together. Mikey gives him a little half-smile. He lifts his cup into the air, and, just as Pete thinks he’s going to get an alcohol shower, a girl pushes through the crowd toward them. Pete’s stomach falls out. Things could get ugly, fast.

“Hey, Pete,” Mikey says, casually untangling himself from Pete’s tightened hold. “Have you met Alicia? She’s video.” Oh, Pete is familiar with Alicia and her videos, thank you very fucking much. Alicia leers at Pete before snuggling in under Mikey’s arm. Pete tries not to pull her hair. He’s a man, not a bitch (but, damn it all, those girls really have a good thing going there).

“Hey, honey,” Alicia says against Mikey’s cheek. Her lipstick leaves a little smear against the cut of his jaw, jumping over his stubble. Pete’s stomach is twisting unpleasantly, and his heart is somewhere near his kidneys. Mikey smiles (big, real) at her.

“I’m gonna- Yeah. Bye.” Pete turns on his heel and heads toward the kegs. He needs beer. Lots and lots of beer.

\---

Pete loves Andy. And Joe. And Gabe. And he even loves Amanda, Andy’s weird girl. But mostly? He loves the cold, solid toilet bowl under his cheek. His skin feels hot, hot, hot, and he had a gin and tonic after nine (ten?) beers like the dumbass he is. The insides of his eyes are burning like he’s been staring at the sun, and he can taste the Doritos he ate for lunch. The world has, finally, stopped spinning too fast, and the dizziness has worked its way down to a dull roar in his temples.

Pete is reminded, once again, why Andy is edge. He thinks maybe he’ll take it up, too, just to escape the puking. Then he wonders what made Andy decide to do it. Did he puke a lot, too? Pete laughs a little hysterically at the image of Andy Hurley trashed. He’s about three seconds from upchucking again when the door pops open.

“Jesus, it would be you.”

Pete looks up at the intruder through blurry eyes. Red hair. Ass ugly hat. Patrick, come to save him from his own plague of snakes. Pete cackles again and tries to hold onto the remainder of his organs. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Come to take me home, Pattycakes?” Pete asks with slack lips. Patrick’s left eye twitches.

“No, I came to take a piss.” Patrick grabs Pete under the armpits and hauls. Pete thinks briefly something along the lines of stronger than the eye, and, then, the floor of the hallway punches his shoulder. The bathroom door closes. Pete frowns. He thinks about crawling back in, but Andy’s walking by, so he just latches on and lets himself be dragged to the door. One of his anklets is missing.

“I’m drunk,” Pete tells him, very serious. Andy shakes his head, an annoyed grin at the edges of his mouth. He bends and helps Pete to his feet.

“You’re useless, man,” he says. Pete presses a wet, sloppy kiss against Andy’s cheek. Andy has the grace to not wipe at his face.

The trip to thier room is a blur. Pete throws up once and has a mini-panic attack in the elevator. It feels like they’re falling, going to crash through the bottom of the building and keep going down. When they reach their door, he won’t let go of Andy’s shoulders long enough for him to unlock it, and Andy has to fend him off with baby slaps. Pete crawls into bed, clothes and shoes on, and passes out.

\---

Pete hates Andy. And Joe. And Gabe. And alcohol. And- no, he still loves Andy’s girl. She brought him aspirin and water when her douchey boyfriend decided to start ‘practicing’ on his kit at some ungodly hour of the afternoon. Pete is positive his head is going to explode all over the walls, and he really doesn’t want to clean brain out of the sheets. Joe is sitting on the couch in the living room/kitchen area, laughing at something inane on TV. Pete throws a book at him with surprising accuracy.

“You need anything?” Amanda asks. She smoothes a hand, cool and tender, over Pete’s forehead.

“Just your hand in marriage,” Pete responds. His throat is dry, and his mouth tastes of dead cat. He shudders.

“I’m not ready for that kind of commitment,” Amanda says. Her lipstick has worn off, and so have her eyebrows (this is immensely creepy, but Pete’s having a moment and chooses to ignore it). Amanda taps one finger on the tip of Pete’s nose before standing. She closes the bedroom door behind her like the saint that she is.

It takes an hour or so for Pete to finally roll out of bed. He dresses and heads for the bathroom. Joe’s snoring on one side of the couch, and Andy and Amanda are curled up on the other. Amanda, who has drawn her eyebrows back on, but left the lipstick off, gives Pete a smile before stealthily grabbing the remote from Joe’s limp hand.

After the morning clean-up and teeth brushing, Pete grabs his darkroom stuff and heads to the school. He’s already inside the review room when he realizes he’s forgotten his iPod in his room. Before his mood is too soured, though, he catches sight of the print pinned to the corkboard. It’s the final version of the field and his brother (titled Life Is Not About Fighting Fair). And, so, maybe he left this one on purpose, just to see if he’d gotten his anonymous critic’s approval.

There are two post-its on the back this time, lined up neatly side-by-side. One is yellow. The other is pink. Pete peels them off carefully, squinting at the loopy, messy handwriting.

This looks so much better now. I really like the location. Good scouting Your eye for light is-

amazing. Maybe you should work on your in-camera composition? So you don’t have to crop next time?

PS

Pete’s smiling, but his eyebrows tuck in confusion. He glances at the ground for a fallen note, but finds none. He’s about to pull his print down, but pauses. Looks at his book of negatives. Grins. He has a plan.

\---

Pete’s tied of looking at Gabe’s goofy ass face. The negatives came out better than Pete had hoped, and he’s thrilled about getting a final print out. What he’s not thrilled about? Burning in Gabe’s white ass so it won’t blind any potential viewers.

Pete’s got a piece of cardboard out, the curve of Gabe’s ass and thighs traced onto it. He wields his child safe scissors, grim line of concentration across his face. The cardboard seems indifferent to Pete’s struggle. Carefully, Pete cuts the appropriate holes out, careful not to nick anything important. He flips the cardboard twice, checking out his handiwork, and heads back into the darkroom.

Pete presses the timer on his enlarger and waits the ten point nine seconds for the light to die. Then, he lines up the cardboard over his blank sheet of paper and hits the button again. He shakes the cutout diligently for the three extra seconds. When the light flicks off again, Pete pulls his paper and heads to the sinks.

\---

The print is gorgeous. Gabe’s arms and legs look strong; the curves of his shoulder and knee are three-dimensional. The light is soft and accents the angles of his cheeks, the sharp line of his nose and jaw. The Cobra’s tongue is long and slender, and there’s the tiniest blur at the tip of it. The background is white and stark, contrasty to Gabe’s soft, even tones.

Pete is proud.

He tacks it up himself and pulls out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. There’s an aborted sketch of an idea in the margin. Pete draws an ‘x’ over it with sharpie before scrawling down his note.

what do you think about this one?  
leave me some of your stuff  
i want in on your head

Pete carefully tapes the note to the bottom of his print, gathers his things, and leaves the room.

Things are great until he gets upstairs to the student lounge. He’s yawning (getting old), and his stomach is growling loud enough to be heard. There’s twelve steps between him and turkey sub when he sees them. His stomach growls again.

Mikey’s sitting at one of the tables with Frank. They’re looking over a set of storyboards- Frank’s, a body study- laughing at Frank’s atrocious drawing skills. Alicia is perched on Mikey’s lap, t-shirt riding up over her back as she leans in to play with Mikey’s hair. Pete shoves down the sick in his throat. Mikey got himself a girlfriend. So what? Who cares? Not him. Uh-uh. No way.

Oh, fuck it. He’s so jealous it burns.

\---

Pete tosses his mic to the side and scrubs his hands over his face. He is so sick of playing this douchebag, hardcore bullshit. Behind his kit, Andy puts his sticks down. Chris throws up his hands and lets his bass fall to the floor. It crashes with a mess of reverb, and all of them scramble to cover their ears.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Adam yells over the noise.

“This is a shitty band, and a shitty scene, and I’m fucking sick of this bullshit!” Pete yanks the cord from Chris’ amp, silencing the feedback. He stares down his friends (his bandmates, his brothers) and clenches his fists.

“Then quit.” Adam’s knuckles are white around the neck of his guitar. Pete wants to punch him; wants to get in his face and scream. He kicks the amp nearest him instead and heads for the door.

When he’s in the hall, he hears the soft tones of Andy’s voice, knows he’s telling them why he’s so pissed. He shakes his head and walks home.

\---

On Monday, Pete sits next to Patrick, much to the boy’s obvious dismay. It takes more will power than Pete has not to look back at Mikey. Mikey doesn’t even notice. Pete tells himself it doesn’t sting and turns to Patrick. Patrick seems to be making it a point to ignore him.

“Miss me?” Pete asks, snatching Patrick’s cap. This one is a grey knit affair, with a tiny little bill that’s seen better days. Patrick’s hand flies up after it, and Pete can tell he’s fighting off a battle cry. This is hilarious and Pete holds the hat up higher, snickering.

“Give it back, you asshole.” Patrick punches him in the shoulder. Pete drops the hat and clutches at his new injury. Patrick grabs the cap up and yanks it down over his head, his hair wild under it. He swings his leg back to smash his heel into Pete’s shin. Pete is somewhat thankful that the bruise he got on Friday night is on the other leg.

“This abuse shit’s got to stop,” Pete whines, twanging his voice up. It grates against his own ears. “Serious, I’ll have to report domestic violence, and then we’ll have to separate. Think about the kids, man. The kids.”

“Why are you even talking to me?” Patrick hisses as Kamilla walks into the room.

“Because you’re shiny and new.” It’s not entirely a lie. Pete is a socialite. He loves people, and Patrick is a fiery little ball of pretty. Also? He’s not Mikeyway. It’s pretty awesome. Patrick opens his mouth to say something, but Kamilla starts her lecture before he gets the chance.

“Sally Mann is considered to be very controversial,” Kamilla says, tapping her folders on her desk. “She published her own book of photographs of her children. Three girls, one boy. Ages four to twelve, taken over several years. Some of the images are of the children playing nude.” She runs a few projections of Mann’s images across the board before turning back to them. “What do you guys think?”

“She wasn’t making porn,” Mikey says from the back. Pete clenches his fists. “It was just pictures of kids playing.”

“Good, good,” Kamilla replies, smiling. “Anyone else?”

“It’s uncomfortable, though,” a girl near the front pipes up.

“It shouldn’t be, though,” a boy in the back says. “They’re her kids. They’re just being kids, y’know?”

“But they’re half-naked in a lot of the photos-”

“And, like, ten. Dudes run around shirtless all the time-

“But they’re little girls-“

“Who won’t have tits for six years,” the boy finishes triumphantly. “It’s not porn.” The back of Pete’s neck tingles, and he knows Mikey’s nodding in agreement. The class says nothing else, and Kamilla takes that as her cue to project another image onto the screen. It’s beautiful, is what Pete thinks. He leans in closer to take a look.

The image is of three little girls in front of a wall of vines. The little girl in the middle is topless, her pale, tender skin glowing in the light, outshining her sisters. Her hair is blonde. Theirs is soft browns. She’s wearing a necklace of pearls and a pair of earrings as big as her button nose. The photo is in black and white, but the lipstick on her mouth is blatant, shiny and well done. She’s got a hip cocked to the side, shoulders towards the camera. A little model in an imaginary fashion spread. The two other girls are in little dresses, checks and flowers, rubbing sleepy eyes and looking away.

“This is Jessie at Age Five. What do you think, guys? Any opinions?” Kamilla asks. Pete’s hand shoots up. “Pete?”

“She set it up to talk about the importance of childhood, and how kids are growing up too fast. Maybe to talk about image issues starting early? Look at the middle girl’s face. It looks like she went straight from six to twenty. Mann’s talking about how precious and fleeting childhood is, about how stereotypes and influences start up way too soon.” He frowns for a second. “It’s sad.” There a soft snort on his left. Pete turns his head to look.

“It’s a picture of her little girl playing dress up,” Patrick says matter-of-factly. “Little girls do that. It’s just a photo documenting her growing up, not some giant metaphor for youth and image and stereotypes.”

“I think this goes deeper than all that. I mean, yeah, sure, she was playing, but look at her, and look at them. There’s a story, y’know?” Pete leans in closer, measuring Patrick’s reaction. “It’s all about the message and the change. Without a message, it’s nothing.” Pete flaps a hand, unable to find the words. “It’s, it’s like music. You make it to mean something.”

“Photos and music can be there just to be pretty,” Patrick says fiercely. His jaw is clenched, and there’s something Pete’s not catching. Pete looks at him closer, trying to figure it out. Patrick lets out a breath, unclenching his fists. “There doesn’t have to be anything deeper than that.”

“Both of you have valid points,” Kamilla interrupts. Pete sees Patrick’s fingers twitching, and he’s willing to bet that Patrick’s the kind to get into fights about his passions. This is… intensely fascinating. “Jeremiah, do you have something to add?”

Pete zones for the rest of class, stealing glances at Patrick from the corner of his eye.

When class ends, Pete heads straight to Starbucks. He needs some caffeinated goodness, and nothing will stand between him and this goal. He’s trying not to think about Mikey and their not-date last Monday. It’s hard in a way Pete’s not used to. In an effort to separate himself from it, he orders tea. It’s green and tastes weird and doesn’t have nearly enough caffeine. Pete takes this in stride. He will not angst over Mikeyway and the love they could have had (okay, so, he will totally angst, but not in public, okay? He’s got some shred of dignity left).

Between his first cup of tea and his decision that no bad memory is worth denying himself his beloved coffee, a familiar face pops up behind the counter. The camouflage hat (Seriously? Camouflage?) has been replaced by a Starbucks cap, and the flannel shirt is covered by an apron, but it is definitely Patrick standing by the frappuccino machine, backpack still dangling off one shoulder. Pete’s mood is inexplicably raised.

“Oh, god,” Patrick groans and his shoulders visibly slump when Pete walks up to the counter. Pete winks at him and presses a finger to his lips, contemplating his order. He always gets the same thing. It’s tradition. Tasty tradition. Sweet, sugary, tasty tradition. The barista begins taking her cash drawer out, asking Pete if he could just wait just one sec for shift change. Pete is nothing if not patient. (Shut up. He totally has patience.)

“Hey there, Pattycakes,” he says when Patrick slides a cash drawer in. It jangles merrily as he shuts it. “Didn’t know you work here.”

“It’s my first week,” Patrick says tersely. “Can I take your order?” His lips go a bit white, pressed tight together. There’s a halfway hidden pair of earbuds curled around the neckstrap of his apron, white and scuffed. Red straggles of hair curl around his round little cheeks, and there’s the beginnings of a pretty fierce pair of sideburns along his jaw. He’s cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. Pete grins at him. Patrick closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. “Can I take your order,” he repeats.

“I’ll take a venti mint chocolate frappuccino, an apple muffin, and your phone number.” Pete grins wider and raises his eyebrows. A vein pulses at Patrick’s temple. Pete’s waiting for his eye to start twitching again. It doesn’t. Patrick turns, grabs a muffin out of the case, and goes to make Pete’s coffee. His shoulders are rigid. Pete wonders if it would be taking things too far to offer a massage.

“Eight twenty-six.” Patrick places the coffee on the counter next to the muffins. He holds his hand out. Pete takes it and tugs. Patrick’s eyes go wide as he falls forward, just missing the cup. Pete presses their cheeks together. Patrick’s skin is cool and soft, and Pete thinks he could spend time getting to know it.

“Where’s your number?” He asks against the soft curls of Patrick’s sideburns. The punch to his chest is expected (and totally worth it). Pete laughs, pays the bill, and tosses the change into the tip jar. “See ya, Pattycakes.”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick huffs. Pete cackles and heads back to his table. He’s got a sudden urge to call Gabe and brag. (Their battle for creepiest come on is an ongoing one. Gabe is currently winning, but Pete hasn’t pulled out all the stops yet.)

He settles down at the table and pulls out his Color Theory homework. It’s boring, and Pete’s never been into color, anyway. He prefers the solidarity of black and white. The comfort of uniformity. Also? He can’t paint to save his life. He is so going to fail this class. He’s staring forlornly at his sketch and paints when someone slides into the seat across from him.

“Hey.”

Pete’s arms tighten. His tube of periwinkle paint slips from his hands and clatters onto the table, leaving a smear of blue over the black tabletop. He looks up slowly, hoping that he can stall long enough to trick himself into being alright with coming face to face with-

“Hey, Mikeyway,” he says tensely. Mikey’s got a cap pulled on over his messy hair, and his glasses are crooked on his nose. Pete’s chest aches a little. It’s so ridiculous. It’s not like they dated (not that Pete hadn’t tried like hell). But, still, Pete is used to getting what he wants, and he wants Mikey like a fat kid wants calories. It’s totally unfair.

“Travis’ll do a quarter’s worth of Color Theory homework for a pound of weed,” Mikey says, looking at Pete’s sad little sketch. “It’s not like you can’t afford it.” Pete nods, awkward. His throat closes up when Alicia sits in the empty seat next to Mikey, two cups of coffee in her hands. Mikey takes them with a little smile. Pete wants to punch him for no reason at all.

“Is that a cat?” Alicia turns her head to the side, eying Pete’s sketchbook. Pete covers it with a hand, fingers splaying out to hide the drawing from further scrutiny.

“It’s a unicorn,” he says defensively. “And remember that drawing of the dog you did last quarter? Yeah. You have no room to talk.” He wants to say bitch so incredibly badly, but can’t. She hasn’t done anything wrong (except show an entire party a video of them having bad, drunk sex and, oh, steal his hardcore crush right from under him), and, therefore, is put into a bubble of reluctant protection. He manages to keep his tongue in check, but thinks the word to himself. Loudly. Alicia laughs.

“Drawing’s for the brother-in-law,” she says, wrapping her pinky around Mikey’s. Pete checks for rings and is pleased to find none. “I’m just here for the good looks.”

“Right. Speaking of good looks, I’m gonna go hit on the barista.” Pete gathers his things and shoves them roughly into his bag. “Bye now.”

“Pete.” Mikey catches Pete’s arm as he’s going by. Pete can feel the press of his fingers through the sleeve of his hoodie, hot like fire pokers. “There’s a show Friday. Want to come?”

“Nah. Plans.” Pete shrugs away from him. “Busy dude and all.” He heads towards the counter, intent on making good on his words. Patrick flinches when Pete stops in front of him. It’s endearing for no reason other than Pete’s masochistic streak. “Hi, I’m recovering from a badly ended crush. Please pretend to find me incredibly charming.”

“If I ask why you’re coming to me for this, will I get a retarded answer?” Patrick adjusts his hat, frowning a little.

“Probably. But I’ll buy you dinner if you laugh at the joke I’m not telling.” Pete gives his best charming smile, and Patrick softens. Smiles back, even,

“Skip on dinner. Buy me music,” he says.

“A man after my own heart,” Pete replies. “You name it, you got it. Now laugh.” Patrick does, and it’s more real than Pete had been expecting, rich and smooth. “That-a boy.”

“I want Prince’s Purple Rain on vinyl,” Patrick says, lips still turned up. Pete offers him a two-fingered salute.

“Your taste in music is Wentz approved.” Pete looks over his shoulder at Mikey and Alicia. Their heads are close together, noses touching. Pete’s stomach flips a little. He looks back at Patrick and thinks he sees a flash of disappointment. “Hey, I gotta run. Catch you Monday?” Patrick nods but doesn’t say anything.

\---

Pete is on a mission. He’s taking Mikey’s suggestion and seeking Travis out in hopes of passing Color Theory without finding himself in paint hell. While this task should be ridiculously easy, it’s turning out harder than Pete had planned on. Travis, it seems, has turned off his phone. This is so not on.

So far, Pete has checked Travis’ dorm, the student lounge, and seven art labs. His list of Travis-friendly places is dwindling. He’s opening the door to art lab number eight when a hand claps down on his shoulder. Pete jumps, flailing his arms to bat away the offender. There’s a laugh, high and familiar.

“Hey, Amanda,” Pete says, sheepish. He rubs at the back of his neck and grins.

“Hey there, sunshine. You looking for something?” Amanda’s wearing a fluffy bathrobe. It’s folded over her chest, and she’s holding it closed with one hand. The untied belt hangs down to her bare thighs (which have soft, light brown hair on them. Pete… respects her bravery), and her hair is piled in a messy bun on the top of her head. A few long, loose strands have worked free, falling against the curve of her neck. There’s a purple-red hicky half hidden behind a stone necklace. Pete makes a note to pat Hurley on the back.

“Travis McCoy. Tall. Big hair.” Pete frames his hands around his head in poor imitation of Travis’ afro. “Smells like weed more often than not?”

“You’re lucky. He’s in the life drawing workshop.” Amanda nods her head down the hall. “You want to try?” Pete laughs.

“Yeah, no. I think it’s better if I don’t,” he replies. Amanda shrugs and leads the way. She pushes the door to seven thirty-eight open and steps inside.

There’s a stool set up on a platform in the front of the room. Five kids are sat up at easels in a semi-circle around it, pencils at the ready. Travis is sitting in the middle, nodding along the music on his iPod. He raises a hand at Pete when Pete closes the door behind himself. Pete pulls a stool up behind him.

Amanda pushes the robe off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor beside the pedestal. She’s slender, her hips and belly round and full. Womanly. She sits on the stool and arranges herself artfully. There’s a little smile across her bare lips, sweet and indulgent. Pete really needs to pat Hurley on the back.

“Never took you for the drawing type,” Travis says as he starts sketching. His strokes are sure and even, small jerks of the wrist and fingers. His eyes are trained on the lines of Amanda’s shoulders and sides, concentrated.

“Yeah, no.” Pete taps a finger on his knee, looking between Amanda and Travis’ canvas. “That’s why I came to see you, actually.” Travis makes a vaguely interested sound, and Pete takes that as a blessing to continue. “Someone told me you’re up for a trade?”

“One pound of bud, one quarter’s worth of art.” Travis holds up his thumb, turning it to match the angle of Amanda’s calf. Pete wasn’t aware that people outside of movies actually did that.

“What’s that for, anyway?” he asks, gesturing at Travis’ raised hand.

“Proportion,” Travis answers absently. “So, what class am I acing for you?” It’s not smug, just true. Travis is the best artist Pete knows, and that list isn’t exactly short. (Hello? Art school.)

“Color Theory.” Pete leans in closer to examine the lines making up the curve of knees. He nods in approval.

“Dude, that is such a blow off class.” Travis switches pencils and starts on the facial features. Amanda’s still smiling, but it’s a little uncomfortable now. Pete doesn’t take her for the sit-still kind of gal. “Put your syllabus in my bag and have the pot by Wednesday.” Pete does as he’s told and tucks his packet into the black, bulky backpack at Travis’ feet. He scribbles his name on the top of it at the last second, just in case.

“Any preference?” he asks as he stands. Travis shrugs. “See ya, then.”

“Yeah,” he mutters back, lost in the nuances of shading. Pete takes a last look at the canvas. It’s beautiful in the way only pencil drawings can be. There’s a spark of jealousy, faint and foreign, somewhere in Pete’s chest. It fades by time he hits the door.

Pete catches an elevator down to the basement. He’s eager to see if his critic has left any notes. Sure enough, there’s a purple post-it note stuck to the bottom edge of his print. It doesn’t say anything on it, this time, but has a green arrow drawn on it, instead. It points down at a yellow folder sitting on the desk. There’s a scrawl at the top, and if Pete squints he can see that is says Fall Quarter. Pete slides into the desk chair -it’s the rolly kind, and he has to force himself not to take an impromptu trip around the room- and opens the folder. There are three eight by tens inside on plastic-coat paper. A piece of notebook paper is folded and taped to the back edge of the folder.

This is my last project. It’s about a boy, and about being lost, and about figuring out what being you means. This isn’t the whole set, but it’s enough for you to find a story, whatever you want it to be. I don’t do artist statements, so you’ll have to figure out what it means on your own.

PS

PS- Gabe Saporta is the biggest douchebag on the planet. I can’t comment on your photo because his stupid face makes me cringe.

Sorry.

Pete laughs and folds it again. He pulls the prints out and thumbs through them. They’re filled with soft, muted colors, dreary and sad. There’s only one subject, and his body looks familiar, but his face is covered by a long-nosed gasmask. Pete doesn’t recognize the surrounding, and he wonders if the images were taken in Chicago at all.

The first one is a close-up. The mask is beaten-up, grey and faded. There are cracks on the eyes, chips in the paint of the muzzle. Black hair falls across the top of the mask, hiding the crease where it meets the boy’s face. The light across the face catches the texture of the leather, finds all the dips and bumps and imperfections. It’s creepy and sad and curious. Pete touches a fingertip to the lines of the big, round, plastic eye, tracing the curve of it before tucking the print to the back of the stack.

The second photo is in front of a wrecked building. It looks like it’s been cut in half for display, the floors and ceilings still intact, even without the rest of themselves. The boy sits on the second story, legs dangling precariously off the stone. Bars of twisted, wrecked iron protrude from the concrete, rusty brown and black. The boy is staring past the camera, his mask askew. There’s a flash of tattoo on his arm, just visible under the sleeve of his faded red hoodie. Pete stares at it, trying to clue in on the model. It’s too small, though, and he gives up after a while.

The last print is in a park. The trees are mostly bare, their remaining leaves crackly reds and oranges. The gnarled, twisted branches make a bridge in the sky, a tunnel of bark and dead foliage. The light at the end of it is from the grey sky. The boy stands at the far end, back to the camera. His arms are at his sides, loose and free. The mask dangles from the fingertips of his right hand, close to falling straight off. His face is lifted to the sky.

Pete stares at the last image for a long while. It makes his chest ache a little, and he’s not sure if it’s with hope or with sadness. He tucks the photos carefully back into the folder before pulling out his notebook.

the boy is alone. he is afraid because theres no one to love him and tell him that its okay to breathe. he was abandoned because he never spoke and he eventually lost his voice. no one noticed when he went missing because they didnt notice he was ever there in the first place. he wants to go home. he misses music and other peoples voices but its too late because all thats left now are the trees.

Pete folds the note and tucks it into the pocket of the folder. He takes his print down and puts it into his portfolio with the rest. He doesn’t have anything new to leave, and he’s not in the mood to print. Instead, he tears a poem from his notebook and tapes it to the outside cover of the folder. He wonders if his critic is a fan of poetry, too.

\---

“Pattycakes, I missed you.” Pete bats his eyelashes at Patrick over the counter. It’s Wednesday and he has Advanced Studio Techniques in two hours. He also has to find Iero to buy Travis’ pot. These, of course, are both important endeavors, but the only thing that’s going to get him through either one is sweet, sweet coffee. Fucking with Patrick is just a bonus.

“Do you have radar or something?” Patrick asks, fingers drumming a steady beat on the counter.

“I’m a stalker, sweets. Comes with the Wentz package.” Pete grins. Patrick rubs the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger, eyes closed.

“That’s nice,” he says. “Can I take your order now?”

“Venti mint chocolate frappuchino.” Pete pulls out his wallet and fishes out a ten. “If I tip well, will you make it with an extra dose of love?”

“If by ‘extra dose of love’ you mean ‘less spit’, you’ve got a deal.” Patrick grabs an empty cup and heads toward the frappuchino machine.

“Baby, I’ll swap spit with you anytime you want.” Pete waggles his eyebrows and flicks his tongue across his lower lip. A faint blush crawls across Patrick’s cheeks. It’s a good look on him. Patrick shoves the coffee across the counter and snatches Pete’s ten.

“Have a nice day,” he says tightly as he hands the change back.

“You too, Pattycakes,” Pete says over his shoulder as he heads towards the door.

He finds Iero huffing in the spray room. Frank’s bent over one of the desks, head hidden from the cameras by the compartment walls. He has a whippit can in one hand and a deflated balloon in the other. Pete tugs on one of his dreadlocks as he slides onto the desk.

“That’s weak, dude,” he says, nodding to the can. Frank shrugs and tucks the end of it into the mouth of the balloon. He presses the top down, and the balloon swells with nitrous.

“My high. You come for my pretty face?” Frank pinches the balloon closed and tosses the can out.

“I came for your stash,” Pete admits. “Like, most of it.” He digs through his bag for his wallet, holding it up in triumph when he frees it from his stack of notebooks.

“How much we talking?” Frank offers the balloon up, shrugging when Pete declines. The balloon lets out a whine as Frank drains it, swallowing down the nitrous like a pro. He tilts in his chair, shaking his head. A giggle, high and childish, breaks free.

“A pound.” Pete reaches out a hand to steady Frank when the younger boy leans too far back on his chair. “You okay, man?” Frank sits up straight suddenly, wobbling.

“I am awesome,” Frank answers. “A pound, man? What the hell kind of party you throwing?”

“Sadly, all of it goes straight to Travie. You want to deliver?” Pete makes a hopeful face and hopes that Frank’s high is a generous one.

“Dude, I charge extra for that shit.”

“I’ll give you Jamia’s number, you creepy little shit,” Pete says fondly. Frank grins and holds out a hand. Pete drops the cash into his palm. Franks pockets it and holds his hand out again. “You’re kind of worse than me.”

“Oh, man, I had to sneak into Mikey’s dresser for you, dude,” Frank says, oblivious to the tightening in Pete’s chest. “You so don’t have room to talk.”

“But I will. It’s my thing. “ Pete scribbles Jamia’s number onto Frank’s forearm and slides off the desk. “People to do, things to see.” Frank waves him off. There’s an awkward moment of money-counting in which Pete is doing his best to not think about the Mikey comment, and then Frank is giving him a thumbs up and he’s good to go.

He suddenly feels like he needs more coffee.

\---

Losing his voice was the least of his problems.

Pete touches the back of the post-it, sticking and unsticking his finger to the glue strip. The print it was attached to sits on the desk, sobering and stark.

The kid’s name was Billy. In the photo, he still holds the gas mask in his hands, clutching it to his bare chest. Tattoos creep up his arms like vines, suffocating and binding. His shorts are a subdued red, worn thin and hanging low off his too-narrow hips. The cracks and splits of his ribcage are visible through his thin, jaundiced skin. Dark circles hang from his eyes, punches from invisible fists. His hair is dark, cut to the angle of his jaw, scraggly and unclean. Bruises fall across his chest and hips, blue and purple and washed out. Scars, red and pink and silver by age, curl around his thighs and the insides of his elbows and knees. A victim without a crime.

The off-white porcelain sides of the old, battered tub he’s lying in are cracked and missing chunks of paint. Rust cakes the bronze faucet; mildew hugs the creases between wall tiles. Billy’s eyelashes are a dark smear across the pallor of his cheeks, blending with his smudged eyeliner. His lower lip is split cleanly in the middle, red and swollen. There’s a scab forming, black and thick. Ugly.

he died didnt he? he was the kid that…?

Pete sets the photo down, hand shaking a little. He’s heard about Billy, seen him around a few times, before. He never really paid him that much attention. Didn’t think anything of him. Two quarters ago, after finals, the posters started to go up. The scrawled words of a scared, unnamed author. Then came the graffiti across them, the ‘x’s, the spray painted curses and defamations.

Then, the obituary pasted to lockers, photoless and small. Vicious and reposted again and again.

…this picture’s worth more than a thousand. its this is the stuff that changes lives. the stuff that saves them. you. you have to put this out somewhere. let people know what happens when they lose their voices.

Pete tucks his note under the print and heads to the darkroom. He feels a little sick and is reminded again of why he loves photography. Of how powerful it is. How gut-wrenching and heartbreaking and wonderful.

He spends the next hour printing, going from one negative to the next, restless. His images are coming out all wrong, fuzzy and dull and unimportant. So very, very unimportant.

The photo of Billy is gone when Pete goes back to the review room. So is his note. His critic’s come and gone, only a wall away, without him knowing. There’s a blank CD case lying on the desk instead, a yellow post-it note attached. Green letters spell out for you across it in familiar handwriting. The CD inside is colored in a half rainbow, smears of sharpie markers dried permanent. The poem Pete wrote is folded and taped to the cover.

Pete pops the CD in as soon as he gets back to his room. Andy is sprawled across his bunk, a book held open with one hand. It’s yellow and plain, and Pete already knows it’s Naked Lunch again. He’s about to make a witty comment about straightedge kids and novels about drugs when the music starts up.

It’s a little scratchy, obviously home recorded, but not horribly distorted by it. A guitar is playing, lonely and maybe a little sad, up-tempo and fierce. It’s catchy as it is, the beat easy to get stuck on. Then, the voice comes, and Pete is absorbed. Breathless.

The voice is sweet and full and somewhat familiar. The words are Pete’s, rearranged a little, but filled with the angst and anger he’d been feeling when he’d written it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Andy nodding his head a little to the un-played beat; see his fingers tapping out a non-existent drum line.

Pete plays the song three more times before heading off to class.

\---

“I didn’t think you’d really do it,” Patrick says Monday morning when Pete drops the Purple Rain vinyl on his desk. Pete grins at him and twists Patrick’s cap (it’s blue and has I heart Chicago written on it) to the side. Patrick bats his hand away irritably and readjusts it.

“A Pete Wentz promise is golden, dude.” Pete slides into his seat, propping his feet up on Patrick’s lap as soon as he settles in. Patrick raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push them off.

“You’re kind of weird,” Patrick mutters as he pulls out a green sharpie from his bag.

“I fall in love easy, Pattycakes.” Pete bats his eyelashes, smiling wide. Patrick shakes his head and goes about doodling on the whites of Pete’s shoes.

Kamilla is late to class. Pete doesn’t notice that Mikey never shows.

\---

Starbucks smells of roasting coffee and baking muffins. The music sucks, but it’s soft and comforting, something folksy and acoustic. Sunlight filters through the tinted windows, dust dancing in the rays. Voices float on the waves of cold air let in by the opening of the front door. Patrick is at the counter, smiling awkwardly at customers, adjusting his hat every time a new one comes up.

Pete pretty much loves Starbucks.

“Dude, give the hat a break,” Pete says, leaning over the counter. He’s been standing in the same spot for an hour (which is longer than he meant, but not time wasted), moving for the occasional customer. After the initial argument, Patrick had given in, listening and, eventually, adding in on Pete’s mostly one-sided conversation.

“It’s new. Like, uncomfortable new.” Patrick pulls it off and sets it straight again, and Pete’s pretty sure that time was just to be obnoxious. “And no one’s forcing you to stay and watch me, y’know.”

“Don’t be petulant,” Pete says, stealing coffee stirrers from the rack. He tosses them at Patrick’s head while Patrick waits on a customer and smiles disarmingly when Patrick glowers at him. “So, hey, there’s a show Friday.” Pete fights back the vague sense of déjà vu and leans in closer. Patrick thumps him on the head. “You want to go?”

“Who’s playing?” He wipes down the spot Pete had been leaning on (as if Pete’s hoodies are anything less than clean. Pete is mildly offended), eying the door.

“Me, actually.” Pete waggles his eyebrows. Patrick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Pete steps aside for a customer, bouncing on his toes until he can take his spot back. “Arma Angelus. Heard of them?”

“That shitty hardcore band?” Patrick ducks Pete’s half-hearted punch, laughing. Pete’s knuckles graze the soft cotton of Patrick’s t-shirt, and the skin tingles a little. His stomach turns a bit. This… is an interesting development.

“You have no appreciation of music, dude,” Pete scoffs. “You coming or not?” There’s no reason for him to be so anxious, but he is. Patrick cocks his head to the side, mock-considering, before grinning.

“Sure, dude.” He laughs at Pete’s ridiculous smile and turns to the frappuchino machine. “On one condition, though,” he says over his shoulder, filling a cup. He sets on the counter in front of Pete. Pete raises his eyebrows. “Let me side stage to photograph.”

“Deal.” Pete wraps a hand around the coffee and takes a sip. It’s his venti mint chocolate frappuchino, sweet and cool. Patrick doesn’t ask for cash. Pete’s never been one to look a gift-horse in the mouth- he’s going to take this freebie and run with it. “You want me to pick you up?”

“Don’t you have to, like, set up and stuff?” Patrick takes another order, collects the money, and turns back to Pete. His eyes are clear behind the lenses of his glasses. They’re wide and bright, and Pete’s chest maybe tightens. Only a little, and he’s pretty set on not thinking about it).

“More stuff for your set, right?” Pete twists Patrick’s cap, cackling at Patrick’s slaps. “So?”

“I live in Shannon Hall,” Patrick says, readjusting his cap again. His cheeks are pink, round and smooth and very, very different from what Pete’s used to looking for. Is he even looking? Pete pats one of them- and it really is as soft as it looks- and picks up his coffee.

“I’ll pick you up around five, Pattycakes,” he says, shouldering his bag. He blows a little kiss (Jesus, he’s turning it up to twelve) before heading out.

He goes straight to the darkroom. As he’s passing through the review room, he notices a note tacked up. There’s nothing on it to say that it’s addressed to him, but he takes it down anyway. The handwriting on it is the same familiar scrawl.

Billy was my friend in high school. We grew up together, y’know? He had a hard time adjusting to college. He was sick all the time, and he was getting depressed, and there was nothing I could do to change it. I took the set to try to help him see what was going on. And. Well. We see how well that worked out. I don’t think I could share these on a large scale. They’re… I don’t know if Billy would want them out that way.

PS

Pete tucks the note into his pocket and grabs for a notebook. He scribbles down his response twice and tears them both up. His words are faltering, and he’s not really used to that. He finally settles and tacks his reply up.

use him to save others.

\---

Andy’s tapping his fingers on the driver’s wheel, looking out the window while Pete finishes loading his equipment into the van. Chris and Adam pile in, slap fighting for shotgun. Pete settles in against his speakers, leaning into them. There’s a demo playing in the tape deck, totally off beat and out of tune, but it pumps Pete up. It’s been too long since they’ve played a show (a good show, an honest show) and he is just so. Fucking. Stoked. Also? He may be a little excited to show off to Patrick. And he’s not going to think about that last part.

Except maybe how he totally is. The doodles on his sneakers are green and badly drawn. There’s a stick figure photographer, music notes, and a scribble of a lyric that might be Prince. Pete’s stomach twists, and he distracts himself by yelling directions to Andy.

Patrick’s wearing a t-shirt that’s a little too small (and, seriously, Guys Gone Wild?) and jeans that are a little too tight. His hat is blue and fits like a skullcap. His hair is sticking out from under it, bright and messy. There’s a camera strapped around his neck, banging into his chest as he hurries towards the van. He gives Pete a smile and raises the camera to catch the smile that Pete flashes back.

Chris scoots to make room for Patrick, leaning into the front seats to toy with the radio. Andy starts driving before Patrick’s down, and there’s an awkward collision of elbows and knees and equipment before Patrick manages to squeeze himself between the PA and Pete.

“You still do film?” Pete asks, nodding to the camera. It’s old, worn around the edges, the logo nearly rubbed off the shutter. Patrick wraps his fingers around the lens tenderly, thumb sliding against the body.

“Film’s more personal, y’know?” Patrick replies. “It makes it something more.”

“Totally agree, dude.” Pete grins. He opens a hand, and Patrick, reluctantly, pulls his camera off and sets it gingerly on Pete’s outstretched palm. It’s lighter than it looks, warmed from being close to Patrick’s chest. Pete thumbs the advance dial delicately- as if it would break; the thing’s more solid than his own. “Can I?” Patrick shrugs.

Pete leans into Patrick’s side and lifts the camera, aiming it blindly. He licks Patrick’s cheek before snapping the shutter. Patrick sputters and elbows him in the chest. Pete cackles. He hands the camera back, settling against the nearest speaker.

“Dude, I want a copy,” he says. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“You came here on a scholarship, didn’t you?”

“Nope,” Pete says around a grin. “Rich parents.”

“Not rich enough to get us a damn trailer,” Chris grumbles, sinking back from the front. Tim makes a face at him, declaring his radio-oriented victory.

“Like we’re touring enough to need one,” Pete retorts. There’s an ache inside at that, but he pushes it away. Now isn’t the time for that. Chris flicks his muddle finger up without malice.

The rest of the ride is drowned out by the demo Tim’s managed to force into the tape deck. Pete keeps stealing glances at Patrick, who looks a little awkward and uncomfortable, and feels sort of creepy. Patrick catches him and cocks his head, eyebrows raised. Pete pulls a face, the nerves in his stomach settling down.

Twenty minutes later, Andy jerks the can to a stop. Pete, who is used to it, flings out an arm to catch Patrick before he has the chance to topple forward. The body of the camera, back around Patrick’s neck, slams into his elbow, and it throbs in a familiar way. The five of them crawl out of the van, stretching their legs and bounding around to burn off energy. (Okay, so Pete bounds. The rest just tolerate him with shaking heads and sighs.)

Patrick starts snapping photos. A glance of Chris’ hands in his hair. The stretch of Andy’s back. Tim’s legs dangling from the bumper. Pete in mid jump. Pete’s already wondering what they’re going to look like, what story Patrick’s going to tell with them. Wonders if he can get copies.

They unload and start dragging their equipment in, Patrick at their heels. Andy keeps sending Pete looks. Pete is steadfastly ignoring them. He doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

When they’re done with it, Pete drags Patrick to the bar by the wrist. Patrick slaps at him, but Pete has a new mission. He yells out an order to the bartender over the house music. The bartender eyes him suspiciously, and Pete’s about to pull out his driver’s license when the bartender pulls out two shot glasses.

“What part of I don’t drink don’t you get?” Patrick shouts into Pete’s ear. His breath is hot against Pete’s cheek, the ends of his hair tickling against Pete’s jaw. The bartender sets down a saltshaker and a plate of lime wedges, giving them one last disapproving look before turning towards the other end of the bar.

“No hablo Inglés,” Pete says, skewing the accent horribly. He slaps down a few bills before putting an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulling him in. “Watch and do, Pattycakes.” He lifts Patrick’s hand (against Patrick’s flailing) and shakes salt onto the space between the boy’s thumb and finger.

It’s official. He’s pulling out all the stops. Something’s going on. Pete doesn’t freak, but he does panic a little, deep on the inside (not that he hasn’t had a crush on a dude because, seriously, Mikey. Hey). But he’s feeling a little cheated out of a post-crush mope.

He shakes himself out of it. Patrick’s looking at him, eyes narrowed. Pete smiles at him charmingly before he lifts Patrick’s hand to his mouth. The taste of Patrick’s skin is overpowered by the salt, but it’s hot and smooth under his tongue. He doesn’t have time to catch Patrick’s expression before he’s downing the shot of tequila and groping for a wedge of lime. He shoves the lime into his mouth and sucks, wincing at the burn down his throat.

“That is so disgusting,” he says cheerily. Patrick’s staring at him wide-eyed, somewhere between pissed and confused. Pete’s taking this as a win. “Your turn.”

“Pete-”

“For me, man? So I don’t have to do two and suck during the show?” Pete bats his eyelashes overdramatically. He’s still holding Patrick’s hand. It’s hard not to notice. Patrick rolls his eyes. “I swear you will not get busted.” There’s a moment where Patrick just stares at him, lips pressed together. Pete’s feeling like he might be losing when Patrick sighs. “Success!” He dumps salt across his own hand, maybe more than needed, but whatever, and holds it up like a prize.

Patrick looks at it skeptically before leaning forward and licking at the web between thumb and forefinger. His tongue is wet and hot (and his lips are going to be in Pete’s dreams for years, seriously), and it’s gone sooner than Pete wants it to be. Patrick knocks back the shot and jams the lime wedge Pete’s holding into his mouth.

The face he makes is ridiculous- all scrunched up eyes and puckered lips and crinkled nose. Pete’s pretty sure it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen. He snatches Patrick’s camera long enough to catch a picture of it. He dodges Patrick’s kick and laughs.

“I want that one, too, dude,” Pete says. Andy sits next to them, his you’re doing wrong again, but I’m better than pointing it out face firmly in place. Pete shrugs and pats him on the back. “I’m playing Bacchus.”

“We’ll go with that,” Andy says skeptically. His attention flickers, and then Amanda’s there, hair tied up messily, make-up as bright as ever. She kissed Pete’s cheek, smiles at Patrick, and sits on Andy’s lap in a flurry of movement. Patrick snaps a photo of them without either noticing.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?” Amanda asks Pete, reaching around him for the untouched lime left on the plate.

“A voice box as well rehearsed as mine needs no warming up,” Pete says matter-of-factly.

“Right.” Andy shakes his head. Pete’s about to go into a tirade about the quality of a good, well practiced scream when something catches his eye.

“Dude, jello shots.” He points out the mini bar excitedly.

“No,” Patrick and Andy say together. Amanda laughs merrily around her lime.

“You guys ruin the fun.” Pete scuffs his toe against the ground and sighs loudly. He grins when, a minute later, Patrick sets a shot down in front of him. “I knew I liked you.”

“Keep it up, Wentz.” Patrick rolls his eyes, settling down onto the stool again. Pete thinks he’s falling in love.

\---

There’s something exhilarating about being on stage. The crowd. The lights. The knowledge that all eyes are on him. The bonus of Patrick snapping photos unobtrusively at the foot of the stage doesn’t hurt, either. Pete throws himself around the stage, smashing into Tim and Chris. He screams his throat raw, launches himself into the crowd, mic and all. It feels like a goodbye. He thinks maybe it is.

Pete tosses his mic into the air at the end of the last song and lets it crash to the ground. The crowd, which is as big as it’s ever been, cheers as the lights go out. Chris tackles him, bass and all. Pete laughs into the embrace hysterically. He won’t be having this moment again. Not with them. Not like this.

Patrick’s waiting in the wings, camera raised. The flash goes off as Pete races towards him. Patrick has time to swing the camera to safety before Pete wraps him up in arms and legs and knocks him flat. He’s protesting, yelling about sweat and dirt and swinging his arms futilely. Pete presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. He feels. Okay. Happy.

\---

Pete yawns into his wrist as he heads toward the review room. He has a project to print and he is so not feeling it right now. The message just. Isn’t with him today. He also hasn’t been shooting, too caught up in midterm parties and notes and endless visits to Starbucks. There’s a folded note tacked up to the corkboard. Pete cheers up.

So. I want to ask you out. But there’s no way I’m doing it face to face. So. Do you maybe want to go for coffee? Or something?

PS

Pete frowns. Well. That’s unexpected. He folds the note carefully, running his thumbnail across the edges in thought. He tucks it away into his pocket and reaches for his notebook. It takes him a few tries to put the pen to paper, and he feels like an ass already. He’s never been good with this part.

hey. youre an awesome photographer. and your pipes are pretty badass. But im kinda interested in someone already. im sorry. another time another place, yknow?

He tacks the note up, feeling a little sick. There’s never an easy way to let someone down. He picks up his backpack and heads back to the dorms. He just. Doesn’t want to be there right now.

\---

Pete flops into his chair Monday, bright-eyed and ready to go. He’s been promised band photos and he wants them right now. Patrick’s not in his seat, which is unusual. What’s more unusual is that, when he does come in, right at eight, he sinks into the chair next to Jeremiah, all the way across the room. Pete spends the class in a sulk, wondering what he did. He draws a blank.

Pete heads to Starbucks alone, hoping to find answers and make amends. He wonders if Patrick maybe got a hangover. Wonders if that’s grounds to get pissy. Dismisses it. He orders his frappuchino from a girl he’s seen but never actually talked to and waits at his favorite booth for ten minutes. The coffee doesn’t taste as good, and Pete pushes it aside after the first few sips. His phone buzzes.

Pete scrambles to pull it from his pocket, flipping it open hurriedly. He sighs. The text is from Travis. His Color Theory homework’s done. Pete hasn’t really thought about it since the deal. He looks at the clock above the door and then to the counter. Bites his lip and makes his way back over.

“Hey, do you know if Patrick’s in today?” Pete asks the girl. Ger nametag reads Greta in tiny print, a happy yellow smiley face penned in next to it. She eyes him with a frown. Pete wants to throw his hands up in surrender. He’s never pissed people off so easily before in his life.

“He called off,” Greta says eventually. “Are you Pete?”

“…Yes?” Pete flinches when Greta narrows her eyes.

“If you order another cup of coffee, I’m going to spit in it. Just so you know.” She puts her tiny hands on her waist, the picture perfect pissed off sister.

“Did I piss off the universe?”

“Pretty close. Meanie.” Greta points to the door. “No more coffee until you fix it.”

“You know, it’d help if I knew what I did wrong,” Pete says slowly. Greta ignores him, turning to the next customer in line. Pete cuts his losses, gathers his things, and heads for Travis’ place.

The cloud of smoke that greets him is both unsurprising and intensely irritating. Travis and Joe are sitting together on the couch, nodding along to the track on the stereo. Frank and Jamia are falling over each other on the floor, putting a puzzle together the wrong way. Joe raises a lazy hand and offers a neatly packed bowl. Pete fights the urge and declines. Figures that he can work out his issues better sober. He steps over Frank’s legs and flops into the space between Travis and Joe.

“Yo,” he says lamely.

“Sup, dude.” Travis motions to a sketchpad on the coffee table. “My work is done.”

“Thanks.” Pete kicks at Frank’s thigh lightly, rhythmically. Joe’s looking at him, head cocked. Pete’s ten seconds from snapping. He just. Does. Not. Get it.

“You alright?” Joe asks. Pete shrugs. Not really, no. He’s not. “What’s up?”

“I pissed Patrick off somehow. I also pissed off the coffee girl. Without trying.” Pete chews on his thumbnail absently. “These events are most likely connected. How? Beats me.” Joe and Travis share a look. They shake their heads. “Woah, hey, not on, guys.” He glowers at them. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“How to figure draw-”

“How to make twelve kinds of cheeses-”

“The difference between hatching and cross hatching-”

“Eight recipes for blood pudding-”

“How to render 3-D characters,” Frank cuts in cheerfully. Pete kicks him.

“Yeah, you guys are assholes,” he says tersely.

“And you’re, like, seven shades of stupid,” Joe replies fondly. “Seriously.”

“Thanks. Really.” Pete tocks up onto his feet and grabs the sketchbook.

“Boys are cute when they’re oblivious,” Jamia giggles. She kisses Frank’s cheek sweetly. Frank smiles, big and goofy. Pete’s not really in a bad mood. He just. Wants to be alone for a while.

\---

Pete texts Patrick twelve times in as many hours. It’s been three days, and he’s feeling sicker with each one. He’s obsessive. He made peace with that a long time ago. It just never struck him how much time he’d been spending at Starbucks, or how often he’d found himself tucked into a corner with Patrick, sharing headphones in comfortable silence.

Patrick doesn’t text back. Pete pretends this doesn’t kill him. He’s never really been good at acting, though, and his heart aches.

Sometime after Pete’s sent text thirteen, Andy walks into their room. He takes a look a Pete’s bruised eyes, his slumped shoulders, and turns back around. A few minutes later, Amanda walks in. She’s wearing one of Andy’s shirts and a pair of kitten kneesocks. Pete wants to wonder if she’s gone to her own dorm at all in the past week but, honestly, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Silently, Amanda takes Pete’s phone and turns it off. She ducks into his bunk, folding her legs under herself, and pulls him to her chest. Pete curls around her like a child. He closes his eyes, letting the tiredness sink into him. Amanda runs gentle fingers through the hair at the nape of Pete’s neck.

“I don’t know what I did,” Pete says softly. Amanda hums quietly in reply. “I like him, y’know? Like, really like him.” Pete falls fast. He doesn’t kid himself about it. But, Patrick? He’s something Pete just. Needs in a way he hadn’t realized existed. A missing limb he’d never known he didn’t have. “And, seriously, I’m at a total loss here.” Amanda doesn’t offer any words of consolation or explanation; just rocks Pete until he falls asleep. She’s gone in the morning, but there’s a heartbreak mix tape lying on his pillow and a note under it that says, you don’t need me, but I’m here anyway.

\---

Pete prods at the print that’s floating in the fixer. It’s still got two minutes to go, and Pete’s getting antsy. He’s tired, and all the coffee (strong, bitter brew from Andy) in his stomach is making him nauseous. A pair of grey eyes stare up at him, blurred under the ripple of chemicals. Pete flips the image over.

It’s been two days since Amanda rocked him to sleep, and Pete’s on the verge of giving up. He’s past the pissed, angry stage and moved on to the hurt, sad phase and it’s showing. His phone is full of texts and calls gone unanswered, and he’s going to have a lot of apologizing to do when he feels up to talking to his friends again.

Pete pulls the print and walks it to the dryer. He thinks about leaving it for his critic. Wonders if he’ll get any more notes. Doubts it. When the print rolls around he puts it carefully into his portfolio. He closes the binder without looking at it too closely. Right now, he just doesn’t really care.

There’s a cramp building in his stomach. Pete rubs at it with his thumb, wincing. Andy’s coffee is killing him. Pete slings his back over his shoulder and makes the long trek to Starbucks. His hand hovers over the handle for a long moment. He takes a deep breath and pushes in.

The line is long. Lunch rush. Pete takes his place without looking at the counter. He glances around instead, taking in the familiar tables, the old, ugly wallpaper. The- hold on.

Pete leaves the line to get closer to the new photo display. There are four prints on glossy paper, centered in old, battered oak frames. The images are no less heart-breaking than they were the first time Pete saw them.

The artist statement that hangs below them is short, hand written and concise. The penmanship is familiar, and there’s a tiny PS hanging on at the bottom of the page. Pete hazards a glance at the counter. Patrick’s watching him. He looks away when he realized he’s been caught.

Pete is a moron.

He hops back into line, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Patrick has his drink and muffin ready and rung up before Pete reaches the counter. He holds out his hand silently, eyes level with the decal on Pete’s shirt.

“Patrick, what’s your last name?”

“…Stumph?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. His lips are pressed into a tight line, and Pete really just wants to jump the counter and tackle him.

“I am an idiot,” he says instead.

“…I’m really not going to argue that.” Patrick pushes the coffee forward insistently. “Can you just pay and, y’know, leave?”

“Dude, we need to talk. Like. Five days ago.” Pete leans over the counter, ignoring the impatient huff behind him. Patrick looks at the growing line and sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger.

“I get off at three. If you’re not here, I’m leaving.” He winces when Pete lets out an excited whoop.

\---

“Alright. Let me get this straight.” Patrick breaks off a piece of his muffin and pops it into his mouth. His hat is crooked, and he has coffee stains on his ugly blue shirt. Pete has never been so happy to see anything in ever. “I leave you notes on your photos for a month, and you don’t realize that PS is a set of initials?”

“Dude, I’m an idiot. It’s just something you’ll have to get used to.” Pete can’t stop smiling (his face is starting to hurt from it. This says something sort of huge). He steals the edge of Patrick’s muffin and munches contentedly on it. Patrick shakes his head, lips quirked up into a crooked grin. “So, uh, is that offer still up? Y’know. The coffee?”

“Well. We’re already here, right?” Patrick laughs when Pete launches himself across the table. Patrick’s warm and soft and tastes like apples when Pete kisses him.

Pete loves college.


End file.
